


Abigail

by excentricAnthropologist



Category: Original Work
Genre: Androids, Family, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excentricAnthropologist/pseuds/excentricAnthropologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look back on the Fairclough household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abigail

_Scritch, scritch._

Thomas Fairclough’s hand moved fervently across the paper, his eyes narrowed in concentration he scribbled down calculations and equations. The tip of his tongue stuck out ever so slightly as he worked on a particularly difficult problem, the numbers coming together just right as the answer was almost revealed…

_Snap!_

A small noise of frustration escaped the young man as the tip of his pencil broke, leaving an undignified gash of graphite across the equation.

He moved his chair back from the kitchen table, prepared to go grab another pencil from his knapsack, when a small pencil sharpener was set in front of him.

“You mustn’t press so firmly, Mr. Thomas.”

Thomas smiled as he looked up into the passive face of Abigail. Despite the lack of visible emotion on her face, Thomas thought he could sense a trace of chastisement in her voice.

“I can’t help it,” he said, grabbing the sharpener. “I get so _into_ the equations, it just happens.”

“I suppose it is your ‘enthusiasm’,” said Abigail, returning to her task of mopping the kitchen floor. “A trait many find admirable.”

Thomas touched a finger to the tip of the pencil, withdrawing quickly at the touch of the freshly-sharpened point. “I don’t like it; it interrupts my _flow_.” He turned his attention back to the problem and began scribbling again in earnest.

Water sloshed over the sides of Abigail’s bucket as she dipped her mop back into the suds. “As you say, Mr. Thomas.”

Both continued working in silence, the sounds of Abigail’s mop and Thomas’s pencil the only noises in the stillness of the house. Scarlett had been put to bed a while ago, and Mr. and Mrs. Fairclough had yet to return from their latest business trip. One of the longest they’d been on in awhile…

Pencil met tabletop with a resounding _slap_. “ _Got it!_ ”

Abigail looked up. “Difficult problem, Mr. Thomas?”

Thomas sat back in his chair, massaging his cramping hand. “Yeah, even for me. They weren’t lying when they said this was a difficult class… but I figured it out!”

Abigail returned to mopping. “It would appear that your ‘flow’ has not been interrupted, as you so feared.”

Thomas chuckled as he stretched his arms above his head. “Guess not,” he said with a wide yawn.

Abigail paused, turning her attention to her ward. “Are you tired, Mr. Thomas?”

“Eh? No, no, not at all…”

Abigail’s hands balanced atop the mop's handle. “It is past midnight. If you are to achieve the optimal eight hours of sleep that you require, you should have entered REM approximately forty-three minutes ago.”

Thomas grimaced as he fought another yawn. “You and your way of putting things into perspective…”

“I only have your best interests in mind, Mr. Thomas. That is my function.”

Thomas rubbed at his eyes, finally giving into exhaustion. “All right, all right, you win, Abigail,” he said, yawning once more. “I guess I’ll head to bed, then…”

Abigail set her mop to rest against the counter as she began to gather Thomas’s supplies together. “Will you require anything more this evening, Mr. Thomas? A cup of tea? Some warm milk? A song?”

Thomas snorted. “Abigail, I haven’t needed you to sing me to sleep in years! I’m a young man, now, not a restless child!”

“Understood, Mr. Thomas,” said Abigail, snapping Thomas’s knapsack shut and looking up at him. “Will that be all?”

Thomas stood there for a moment, staring into her wide, unblinking eyes. And suddenly a strong wave of nostalgia washed over him, memories coming back to him like a film reel; a soft, comforting voice singing sweet melodies to him; arms around him, a hand stroking his hair; his tears being wiped away as the sound of his parents’ taxicab grew more and more distant…

Suddenly Thomas was aware of just how long his parents had been gone.

“A cup of chamomile tea would be wonderful, actually.”

 

* * *

 

Abigail shut Thomas’s bedroom door, teapot in hand, before making her way down the hall. The simple shoes she always wore made soft noises against the hardwood floor, the sound echoing against the empty walls.

The android returned to the kitchen and rinsed out the china teapot, watching the leftover chamomile blossoms circle down the drain. She then set it aside to dry before returning to her mopping.

It didn’t take long for Abigail to finish; she had been working for some time before she had decided it was time for Thomas to retire. She returned the mop to its proper place in the storage closet before lifting the bucket of sudsy water and heading towards the workroom at the back of the house.

The workroom was small, but crowded. It was full of tools, gardening equipment, a washing machine and dryer, even a table stocked with lab equipment for Thomas to perform simple experiments (always supervised by Abigail, of course). In the corner was a sink where Abigail always disposed of any water leftover from chores, and right next to it, tucked away almost imperceptibly, was Abigail’s charging station.

Abigail was just pouring the bucket’s contents into the sink when she heard a voice coming from upstairs. A human wouldn’t have been able to hear over the sound of the water sloshing around the basin, but Abigail’s auditory receptors caught the sound of her other charge calling out her name.

“Abigail! Abby!”

Abigail placed the now-empty bucket under the sink and promptly re-entered the house, making her way through the kitchen and up the stairs, hearing Scarlett’s voice getting louder as she drew nearer.

“Abby!”

As Abigail approached Scarlett’s room, she noticed that the door was completely shut. Abigail always made a point to leave the door open just a crack after she put Scarlett to bed.

Abigail entered the room and saw that the only light came from the sparse moonlight peeking out from behind the curtains, by which Abigail could make out the shape of Scarlett’s body curled up underneath her covers. Abigail crossed the room quickly and turned on the small lamp sitting on Scarlett’s nightstand, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow.

“Miss Scarlett, I have told you before that it is advisable for you to sleep with the door open. You know you cannot fall asleep if it is too dark.”

Scarlett sat up, small hands clutching the blankets around her trembling frame.

“But… but Tommy says that I shouldn’t be afraid of the dark anymore. He says I’m too old.”

“While it is true that nyctophobia is more common in children, it is highly prevalent among adults, as well,” said Abigail, sitting down next to Scarlett and folding her hands in her lap. “Your brother has studied psychology; he should be aware of this fact. Note: inquire of Mr. Thomas his research into anxiety disorders.”

Scarlett wiped at her eyes. “I told him I can’t sleep with the door closed, and he said I was silly,” she mumbled, lip quivering.

“Your brother’s inability to comprehend the debilitating effects of phobias is not something you need concern yourself with, Miss Scarlett,” said Abigail, placing a hand on Scarlett’s knee. “You are not “silly”; you are very intelligent. Need I remind you that you are reading at a grade level far above that of your peers?”

In spite of herself, Scarlett smiled. “That’s true.”

“And you are very good at painting, especially in comparison to Mr. Thomas.”

A giggle. “He can’t even draw a stick figure!”

“I have also heard you play the piano; you hardly ever make a mistake.”

Scarlett lifted her chin proudly. “My tutor says I’m her best student!”

“Do any of the aforementioned feats sound “silly” to you?” Abigail asked, brushing a stray lock of hair out of Scarlett’s eyes.

Scarlett cast her eyes downward. “No, I guess not…”

“Then one must infer that you are not “silly”. It is the only logical conclusion, one that I am sure Mr. Thomas would understand.”

Scarlett looked up at Abigail for a moment, the brown eyes meeting the green, and threw her arms around the android’s shoulders. “Thank you, Abby.”

Abigail patted the girl’s shoulder. “Of course, Miss Scarlett.”

Scarlett drew back, smiling, before reaching over to her nightstand to retrieve a hairbrush. “Will you braid my hair, Abby?”

“Miss Scarlett, I braided your hair not four hours ago, and the plait is still intact.”

“I know, but…” Scarlett pressed the brush into Abigail’s hands. “Will you do it anyway?”

Abigail’s fingers closed around the handle. “Of course, Miss Scarlett.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Beatrice" is a one-act play written by my friend for our theatre club. It was performed in the spring of 2014, and I wrote this as a means of character exploration (I played Abigail). I decided to post it here since it's technically fan fiction; the play pretty much created a fandom in our circle of friends, [and we've even got teas based on the characters.](http://www.adagio.com/signature_blend/group.html?group=5224) :)


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